


Breaking But Not Yet Broken

by Zaxal



Category: Psych
Genre: Developing Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-25
Updated: 2012-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-08 13:50:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaxal/pseuds/Zaxal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being held captive and hurt, Carlton's relationship with Shawn starts getting complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking But Not Yet Broken

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Mild violence/non-explicit torture and non-explicit sex.

Shawn's bleeding.

It's easier to focus on that, on the trickle of red on Shawn's lower lip, than on anything else. He keeps reminding himself. Shawn's bleeding. And he keeps breathing, keeps holding on, refuses to break no matter what happens.

Shawn's bleeding for him. _Because_ of him, part of Carlton's mind hisses, but that's not true. Shawn had an option, could have shut his mouth, probably should have, but of course he hadn't. Had spent the last hour or so critiquing the man holding them both captive, sounding surprisingly light in spite of it all. It had helped – Carlton's not sure how he's going to pay Shawn back for it, but he swears he will.

Harrell had hit him, fist to face, split Shawn's lip open, and Shawn had laughed. Asked him if that was as good as he could do.

Carlton can attest that, no, it's not. Because he's bleeding too, and it's so much more than a split lip. He can't see the damage, isn't sure he wants to, really. He knows it hurts, and he can feel the hot trickle of blood down his back. But none of that matters because Shawn is bleeding too. Bleeding and smiling and being such a damn distraction that Harrell drops the whip and goes over to where Shawn is cuffed on the other side of the psycho bastard's borrowed basement.

It's Carlton's turn to be distracting, to keep those hands and that pain away from Shawn as best he can. "Harrell," his voice is dry, weaker than he'd like it to be, but it's enough to make Harrell pause, his hands curled into fists. "Chickenshit bastard. Couldn't take us in a fair fight, so you had to do this?"

"Seriously, dude. There are better ways to compensate for a tiny dick," Shawn says, and Carlton laughs in spite of the pain. "Get a huge car or in some bar fights or something, man."

"Spencer, shut up." He's got the barest hint of a smile, and Shawn's bravado isn't holding up much better. But it is, so he'll do his best to keep up.

"Or be like Lassie here and get a badge and a gun."

"I swear to God," Carlton growls, trying to seem like none of this is getting to him. Harrell turns quick as a flash and smashes his fist into the side of Carlton's head. Darkness clouds the edges of his vision along with small sparks, flitting bits of light. He laughs. It's forced, hollow, and he can taste blood from where he bit down during the impact. But Harrell's eyes narrow, and Shawn is safe.

Shawn is bleeding. Carlton is too, shirtless, stripes on his back, arms secured with his own handcuffs to a hook that's suspiciously at the perfect height. Backup is hopefully on the way if Shawn's half as clever as Carlton thinks he is. Or it will be soon. He hopes. Shawn's stalling while they both bleed, and it's the least Carlton can do to help.

"Owch. That's gonna bruise." Shawn's wince is real, but he's still trying. So Carlton does too.

"Yeah, you think?" He smiles grimly, "Can only imagine what my back's going to look like."

"Shut the fuck up," Harrell growls.

Shawn attempts a cheeky grin, and if Carlton didn't know him better, he might have fallen for it. "Is Lassie still allowed to make all those grunty noises or can he stop those too?"

"Spencer," Carlton glares.

"Sorry, Lass. Just trying to figure out what Harry wants. You understand, don't you?" He pouts, and Harrell finally snaps. He grabs Carlton's shirt from where he tore it off after both he and Shawn were cuffed. Shawn struggles for the first time since, snapping his teeth, kicking out his legs, trying to edge away, but Harrell forces his mouth open, stuffs a roll of cloth in before tying one of Carlton's unattached sleeves around his mouth.

Gagged, Shawn's eyes go wide, afraid, his only weapon no longer at his disposal.

Fresh blood wells on his lip, stains the remains of Carlton's shirt. Carlton meets Shawn's eyes and nods firmly. Harrell gags him too for good measure and picks up the whip again. Carlton focuses on the red on Shawn's lip with every fresh lick of pain.

Carlton forgets how time passes. It could be minutes or hours by the time the door shatters suddenly and O'Hara's yelling for Harrell to get down on the ground.

They unlock Shawn's cuffs first. Shawn pushes them away, gag still in place as he rushes over to pull Carlton's out. "You're bleeding." Shawn fusses with his own gag as they release Carlton's hands. He wobbles but stands on his own.

He expects a smart-ass response, but Shawn's smile is strained. "Yeah. You are too."

\-----

The doctor gives it to him straight. A few of them are deep, will take weeks to heal completely. They'll probably scar.

Carlton nods, sits patiently while they clean, stitch, bandage. They give him painkillers, and he spends the night in the hospital, laying on his front.

O'Hara took Shawn to Henry and Guster. Carlton falls asleep to the quiet hum of machinery and tries not to think too much about the fact that he's alone.

\-----

He gets back to work as soon as he can. It hurts to sit back in his chair, so he leans forward on his desk and ignores the attempted subtle stares coming from every single angle. He's about to lose his temper at someone – probably O'Hara even though she doesn't deserve it – when he hears the commotion coming from across the bullpen.

Shawn approaches his desk alone the way no one else besides O'Hara has dared to all day. He beams sunnily, "Hey, Lassie."

"Spencer," he says cold, flat, because he's waiting for the breach of social courtesy, waiting for the _how's the back_ when that's the last thing he wants to talk about.

"I brought tacos!" He announces, pulling a chair over to Carlton's desk. "For both of us though. There's five, but I was thinking, y'know, we could do a sort of Lady and the Tramp thing with the last one. Start on each end and race to the middle." Shawn leans forward, peers up at him, contemplating. "Sorry, Lassie, but I think you're Lady in this scenario. Since I brought the food and-"

"And you're a ruffian," Carlton says, barely realizing that he's not only playing Shawn's game but encouraging it.

"Dude," Shawn grins. "I bet Gus could pull of a fake Italian accent if you want the song and everything." Carlton manages a smile as he pushes Shawn away from his desk.

"I'll pass." Shawn looks hurt, so Carlton amends. "On the song. And the sharing of the fifth taco. God knows what diseases you're carrying." Shawn's expression breaks into a grin, and he starts making a mess of Carlton's desk.

\-----

Shawn spends more time with him than he should. They end up drinking together, scotch for Carlton and some fruity concoction for Shawn, at Tom Blair's pub when it finally comes to a head. "You shouldn't feel guilty, Spencer."

"Hm?" Shawn smiles brightly over at him.

"For what happened." He downs the last of his drink, wants the strong taste in his mouth when he gets rejected. When he finally has the guts to admit that he thinks Shawn feels sorry for him. "I was doing my job. You don't owe me anything."

"You owe me," Shawn points out after a few moments of damning silence. "I bought you tacos." After a brief pause, he admits, "Okay, Gus bought me tacos, and I shared with you, but it's totally your turn, Lassie."

"That all you want? Food?"

Shawn leers at him in a way that makes his stomach feel fluttery in a way it's probably not supposed to if he wants his life to remain relatively simple. Shawn shrugs, sucks down more of his brightly-colored drink through a similarly bright straw. "Not all," he admits. His knee brushes Carlton's.

"Dinner." His mouth feels too dry. "Tomorrow?"

"Sure." Shawn smiles. "Italian? I'm thinking spaghetti."

\-----

Buzz accidentally pats him on the back after a break in a tough case. Carlton turns on him so quickly that his head spins. Before he can spit out a single threat, he sees that look in Buzz's eyes – fear, sadness, reminding him too strongly of Shawn when he'd been gagged.

Carlton sighs and backs away. "Just. Watch it, McNab."

\-----

He's already irritable when he makes it to the agreed-upon restaurant, but Shawn barely notices. And Shawn doesn't let him remember for long. His feet don't stay on his side of the table, the innocent game of footsie making Carlton forget about the pain in his back, about the healing rings on his wrists. About everything except Shawn.

That is until he leans back halfway through Shawn's dessert – which he's been kind enough to offer to share a forkful at a time until Carlton finally has a bite of rich chocolate cake in his mouth, heat rising in his cheeks at Shawn's grin. He leans back when he swallows, and the pain immediately blazes up his back.

Carlton's breath catches in his throat. His eyes close, and he tries to push it away, to go back to that place where he can't feel anything. Shawn's hand closes around his as he murmurs soothingly, "We're gonna get you home. You'll be fine. Come on, Lassie. Let's go."

"I don't need to be coddled."

"No, you don't," Shawn agrees, but he doesn't let go of Carlton's hand. Carlton opens his eyes to see Shawn flagging the waiter down so they can pay. Shawn produces a credit card out of nowhere, and Carlton's fairly sure that the name on the card is Burton Guster. He makes a mental note to pay Guster back, trying to think of something else over the pain. "But I want to coddle you," Shawn finally admits quietly. "In fact, I need to coddle you. Coddle, coddle, coddle."

"Spencer," he sighs and pushes him away. Shawn doesn't let go of his hand, helps him stand when he doesn't fucking need help or pity or anything Shawn's trying to give him. "I'm fine."

Shawn frowns, shrugs, starts walking towards the exit while still holding Carlton's hand. "Yeah, well. I'm not." Carlton lets himself be led out to the parking lot before he finally pulls his hand out of Shawn's. "Lassie." Shawn grabs his hand again, keeps him from walking away.

Carlton peers at Shawn, his expression obscured by the shadows. But he understands all the same. Because he had seen Shawn's panic when Harrell put the gag in his mouth. Because he had seen Shawn bleed, had felt anger and determination with every drop that smeared on his lip and the gag.

Shawn gives a weak laugh, his hand tightening on Carlton's. "You know. I keep remembering. I can't forget it. How I couldn't do anything to help, and you..." He shakes his head, takes a step away, and it's Carlton's turn to catch him. He grabs Shawn's wrist, pulls him towards him until their bodies are almost touching. Carlton can feel the heat of Shawn's body, feel Shawn's breath rushing across his chest and neck. "They could see what he did to you, and they still took my cuffs off first."

"You're a civilian." Carlton frowns like it's obvious. They had to save Shawn first. They had to. He would never forgive them if they hadn't. "I was doing my job."

"Protect and serve, yeah?" Shawn pulls away from him again, and Carlton lets him slide out of his grip. "All right. Yeah, okay."

"Shawn," Carlton says the moment Shawn takes another step away. Shawn freezes and watches him carefully through the dark. Carlton doesn't know what to say to him, what will make it all better for him. It's unfair. He took the pain. He slept alone in the hospital. Shawn shouldn't be suffering – and some cynical, pessimistic, dark voice in the back of his mind says Shawn isn't, but he ignores that. Shawn hides everything behind a smile and a quick tongue, but right now, he's not.

Because Shawn's not an officer, and no matter how often he tries or how good he is at pretending otherwise, that responsibility isn't his. And Carlton could take the chance and remind him that he shouldn't have been there in the first place, if he'd just listened, but he knows that Shawn's probably heard that from Henry and Guster and possibly O'Hara, and he doesn't want to make Shawn feel worse.

In spite of everything, he cares about Shawn's feelings, and isn't that just a fucking riot?

"Lassie?" Shawn asks, voice small, because Carlton's been too quiet because the words aren't there. He wants to yell at Shawn, wants to push him until he realizes that _this is what happens_ when civilians forget what they are. He wants to make him hurt like he hurts because he thinks that's the only way Shawn's going to forgive himself, and that's what Carlton wants most of all. He wants Shawn to smile, laugh, be an annoyance, be himself.

But he can't possibly say that. He can barely admit it on his own.

He's glaring at Shawn like he's done something wrong, and Shawn asks quietly, "What'd I do?" Shawn takes a step towards him.

Carlton doesn't have words. But talking was never their thing anyway. He grabs the back of Shawn's neck firmly, steers him towards the car. He has no idea where this is going, where they're going, but Shawn's not arguing. He's startled, yelps, "Lassie!" Doesn't struggle, doesn't ask, just goes along with it. So Carlton does too.

He pushes Shawn against his car, feels the burn in the wounds on his back as he leans over him. "What is this, Spencer?" Like he didn't just walk Shawn across the parking lot and shove him up to his vehicle. 

"A really bizarre date," Shawn's answer is instant, and Carlton sees the immediate regret that comes after, like Shawn's just realized he's lying when he wanted to tell the truth. Telling jokes when he wants to be serious. Carlton scowls in the ensuing silence. Silence in unnerving around Shawn. Unnatural. Like a black hole, sucking up everything, leaving nothing of Shawn in its wake. It's pulling him towards that darkness too.

Shawn's eyes are wide as he peers up at Carlton. Nervousness doesn't suit him. Neither does real honest-to-God fear. Or gags made out of shirt sleeves, because if you take away his voice, then Shawn has nothing; stripped bare, helpless in a way he's not supposed to be. He's helpless now, pressed between Carlton and his car, silent of his own volition for the first time since Carlton's known him.

His hand reaches out. He draws his fingers down Shawn's arm, touches his wrist. The only lasting marks on him were made by the handcuffs. His finger touches the sensitive inside of Shawn's wrist, the mark there. He thinks he feels the flutter of Shawn's pulse before he shakes his head, steps away.

"Go home and get some rest, Spencer."

He waits for Shawn to step around him and head towards his ride home whether that be Guster's car or Henry's truck or his own death trap of a motorcycle but he doesn't. Shawn says, "No," and grabs Carlton's shirt and pulls him forward.

Carlton's hands brace on the car on each side of Shawn, each individual mark on his back practically pulsing with pain. Shawn's lips are just next to his, and Carlton feels every tiny movement as he repeats, "No. Lassie."

Carlton presses forward, kisses him, soft like nothing is anymore. Shawn's hands are still clutching his shirt, keeping Carlton pressed close to him. Carlton almost leans into him before jerking back. He doesn't need someone to hold him up – he can stand on his own two feet perfectly fine.

"Don't leave." Shawn isn't pleading, begging, and there's not even a hint of 'please' in his voice. But when Carlton takes a step away, he follows, standing too close, like Carlton might suddenly vanish if he lets go.

And while this is all very sweet if more than a bit confusing, Carlton has work tomorrow, and he can't stand here all night comforting Shawn. He can't... does _not_ want to, besides. The marks on his back weren't there when Victoria left, and the ones that aren't visible to the naked eye are so much worse. And the longer he does this – the longer he pretends that he's capable of this – the closer Shawn gets to seeing past the brave cop who can take a beating like that and come out strong. He'll see the truth, and it'll be too much for flighty Shawn, and Carlton can't deal with that again. "I've got work in the morning," he says and tries to brush Shawn off.

But instead, Shawn smiles, hooks his arm through Carlton's and pulls him back towards the car. "Then we've got all night." Carlton shakes his head, but Shawn pulls the handle on the back door. "C'mon, Lass. When was the last time you acted like a horny teenager?"

"Never," he says stiffly. The door opens to his surprise, and Shawn holds up Carlton's keys with a genuine grin.

"Awesome. 'Cause I'm not sure if I ever stopped." Shawn tries to pull him in, and Carlton's hands go to the car's frame, holding himself up from where Shawn's trying to pull him down into the backseat. Carlton's back protests his resistance, but he refuses to give in. Holds himself over Shawn and glares down at him. Shawn's grin falters, and Carlton sees the real him. Past the smoke and mirrors, the flash and dazzle, and Shawn Spencer needs reassurance. Needs it from Carlton before he can really accept that what happened is over and Carlton's not going anywhere.

His hand is on Shawn's face, softly touching, short stubble tickling his palm. "Not tonight." He should clarify, say that he means 'Not ever' but the words catch in his throat, refuse to make their way out. Shawn leans into his touch, eyes fluttering close for the briefest moment. Peaceful, almost.

The moment passes, and Shawn hops to his feet again, all bright smile and high energy. "All right, Lassie." He swings past him, says, "Goodnight," and walks away with a fake bounce in his step. It takes a remarkable amount of self restraint for Carlton to keep from following after him.

\-----

Carlton forgets himself. It's easy enough when he's not busy to remember simple rules like don't lift anything too heavy and don't be involved in too much strenuous activity, but in the heat of the moment, it all rushes away. A perp takes off the moment he sees Carlton's badge, and Carlton's instincts kick in.

Run. Chase. Subdue.

He trips over something – the entire chase was practically a blur, his mind entirely too focused on his goal as opposed to his surroundings – and by the time he's got his handcuffs snapped into place, he can feel something wet his back.

"O'Hara, take him."

"Carlton?" He sheds his jacket, and he knows it's bad just from her tiny gasp. The fall must've torn them open. How stupid could he possibly be?

He glares at her until she does as she's told, reciting the man's rights and leading him towards the Crown Vic. He refuses to let her take him to the ER first, forcing her to take them all back to the station so she can book him. He leaves when she's inside the station, takes off in his own car knowing that she would have wanted to come with him.

He won't be gone long. She can field the paperwork for this, and he can be back in time for them to go out and work their other cases. He knows better, knows he should take the rest of the day off and let the injuries heal up a bit more. But she had seen them when they were fresh and raw, knew what had happened today, and the last thing he intends to do is give her any reason to think that he's slowed down by them. He refuses to be defeated.

\-----

He's cleaned and stitched up again, his ears ringing with the lecture the nurses insisted on giving him in spite of the fact that he damn well knew what he did wrong. He goes home and changes shirts. He throws the blood-stained one in the trash, and realizes with a laugh that it's the second one he's managed to ruin in as many weeks.

The thought startles him, the laughter leaving a rough burn in the back of his throat. He blames himself for it, of course, because a better cop wouldn't have been taken by surprise, would have gotten Spencer to safety, would have known better in all the ways he didn't.

A better cop would have had Harrell booked and processed in the same time it took the whip to draw a single drop of his blood.

He shakes the thought out of his head, files it neatly in with the other reasons he has to despise himself and shoves the entire box beneath an invisible bed. To be found on some special day when he's home alone and can and can allow himself to feel pathetic and pitiful. He pulls his holster and jacket back on, and he heads back to the station.

\-----

There's a loud, frantic pounding at his front door that night. Carlton responds automatically, grabs the nearest gun and hides it behind his back as he quickly walks to the door. After a quick look through the peephole, he scowls and flings the door open. Shawn's smiling brightly, but his arms are crossed, and there's a tension to his shoulders that puts Carlton immediately on edge.

He doesn't wait for an invitation, storms the front lines in a bold move that leaves Carlton staring at the empty space on his porch wondering what the hell Shawn thinks he's doing. "Spencer," he sighs, closes the door because he thinks he knows why Shawn's here, and he really doesn't want to have this conversation. Not tonight.

"I had to find out from my _dad_. Who found out from Gus who found out from Jules because all three of them were doing their best to keep me away from the station today." Shawn's light tone has a low drag to it – sour and bitter, childish.

"They probably didn't want to risk me shooting you." Carlton puts his gun down on the counter for emphasis. Shawn doesn't even bother looking at it, isn't even surprised that he had brought it to answer the front door.

"I don't need someone protecting me." Shawn turns away from him to look around his house, haughtily inspecting everything while Carlton's hands shake slightly. Heat rushes through his body, red in his mind. Not frustration – he's used to that with Shawn. No, this is rage.

"I didn't do it for you."

Shawn glances at him over his shoulder, his smile gone. He shrugs dismissively, turns his head away again. He drawls, "As I recall, it wasn't your choice in the first place."

Carlton doesn't have the patience or the willpower to put up with this tonight. He stalks across the room and grabs Shawn's shoulder, hoping it hurts, intending to steer him towards the door and get him the fuck out of his house. The moment he touches him, Shawn reacts, squirming out of his grip like it was nothing. Like he could have done it all along. "Get out," he growls as Shawn faces him.

"No." Carlton's eyes narrow, flick towards his gun. "You wouldn't," Shawn says after a long moment, not a dare even though it feels like one to Carlton. It's the truth. He's too aware of his responsibilities, his place in the world to pull any gun on Shawn, on or off duty. Regardless of whether he deserved it. "Save it, Lassie."

Carlton sighs, feeling the heated anger slowly slip out with the rush of air. "What do you want, Spencer?"

Shawn considers him for a moment, still tense, still keeping Carlton on his toes. "It doesn't matter. Because it's not going to happen, is it?" He glares at Carlton, a sneer on his face before making his way towards the door.

Carlton is getting tired of this. "Stop." Shawn pauses, and Carlton allows himself a touch of pleading in his voice, "Just stop. I'm going to lose my mind if we keep doing this."

"Doing what?"

"One of us starts walking out and the other one pulls them back."

"Then let me walk," Shawn says.

"No," Carlton clenches his jaw stubbornly. "You came here for a reason, and I know for a fact you're nowhere even near shy. So tell me why you're here." Silence. He still doesn't like that. He orders, "Tell me what you want."

Shawn meets his eyes then almost immediately looks away. His expression is stony – no fake grin or quick words to hide what he's really feeling. His frown softens, worried at the edges, and Carlton sighs again, drawing his eyes up. He waits patiently for Shawn to work it out – because that slightly confused look on Shawn's face means he's still trying to figure everything out, trying to figure out where he stands in relation to Carlton. "I want you to be safe."

Carlton smiles, amused, "Danger's part of the job."

"Doesn't mean you have to go running off after someone while you're still hurt," Shawn insists, his hands twitching at his sides like he can't decide what to do with them. "Jules or the uniforms could've gotten him just fine."

Carlton hesitates, "She told you there were uniforms there?" The look Shawn gives him is about the guiltiest he's ever seen, and Shawn realizes a second too late that he isn't hiding it. "You were stalking me?" His feet are moving him towards Shawn without his permission.

"Totally on accident. I saw the sirens and heard the lights and the spirits pulled me towards you and- um." Carlton hovers over him, torn between aggravation that he hadn't noticed Shawn tailing him and amusement at how almost sweet it is. Shawn switches tactics, "I saw the blood." He frowns and shakes his head, "You've gotta be more careful, Lassie."

"Why?" He does what he has to do. That's the way it is – the way it's has to be no matter how many bruises, broken bones, scars, or bullet holes it earns him. He has to do it. Has to, and if Shawn's going to follow him around and pretend that he has any right to say what Carlton is supposed to do, then he has to understand that.

Shawn peers up at him, seems to ponder for just a moment before he moves forward, hands coming up to pull Carlton's head down towards him, his lips brushing Carlton's in not-quite-a-kiss, "'Cause," he says quietly. Like that's supposed to be good enough.

A few seconds after Shawn kisses him, Carlton thinks it might just be.

Shawn almost made it to the door. Carlton presses him against it, kissing him with everything he's got. His hands wander down after a few moments and flip the lock. Shawn notices and chuckles, hands running distractingly down Carlton's front while his lips, tongue, and teeth are working at the angle of his jaw and the line of his neck.

Shawn's hands curve around his waist, and Carlton stops at the first touch of Shawn's fingers to the fresh bandages. He probably didn't mean to – but Carlton is immediately suspicious, as always, of Shawn's intentions and draws away before he can have anything confirmed or denied for him.

Shawn stays against the door, asks, "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

He's almost tempted to snap back that Shawn damn well knows what he sounds like when he's hurt, but he holds it behind tightly-pressed lips. "No. Look, Spencer-"

"Didn't we literally just have this conversation?" Shawn asks, walking closer to him. Carlton doesn't back away. "I'm with you, Lass. I'm going to go Donkey Kong levels of bananas if we keep doing this."

"Then maybe we should stop."

"Again. This conversation. Ten minutes ago. Major daygah view."

" _Deja vu_ , and you have not heard it both ways."

"Either way," Shawn lifts his chin, gives a very stern-like expression that would be a hell of a lot more convincing on anyone else but Shawn. "You won't let me leave, and I won't let you."

"So. Where does that leave us?"

Shawn laughs – a small snort followed by a half-giggle like Carlton's unintentionally said the funniest thing and isn't in on the joke. Carlton frowns. "I dunno. Friends?" He must have made some unintentional expression of disgust because Shawn starts laughing so hard he doubles over.

"I'm not your friend, Spencer," he says without needing to because they both know it. He's flushing with embarrassment at Shawn's laughter, wanting to push him away even more now that he feels like he's being made fun of.

"No. I know you're not." Shawn's still grinning. "Not yet, anyway. I'll get you there."

"I'd rather become a pacifist."

" _Lassie_!" Shawn has the decency to look offended, but there's a gleam in his eyes. "Fine," he mock-sighs. "We don't _have_ to be friends." His fake pout quickly melts into a curious peek in Carlton's direction. "Friends don't really kiss, do they?"

"I don't think so." Carlton has never had a lot of friends to judge by.

"Me and Gus don't," Shawn points out helpfully. "So how about we skip friendship and head straight into making out?"

Carlton fights not to roll his eyes. Fights hard and fails anyway. "No."

"Why?" Shawn asks then quickly reminds Carlton, "You kissed me first. Then kissed me back just a few minutes ago. So I don't think my asking is completely off the wall." Shawn quickly grins, "Not that it would've stopped me if I knew how good you were at it. What's the hold up?"

"Because this," he makes a vague gesture between them, "is a train wreck waiting to happen."

"Yeah, and?" Carlton mentally kicks himself for forgetting that Shawn's entire life is a series of trains narrowly managing to keep from careening off of sharp turns while running too fast.

"Why would you want that?" Carlton can't stop himself from asking, and he knows he sounds hurt and bitter. Like he's been in one too many wrecks himself and can't take it anymore.

Shawn shrugs, slowly slides into his personal space. "Everything usually ends up going that way eventually. Why not get the most out of it?" Carlton almost protests – Shawn isn't that cynical, surely, and if he's trying to appeal to Carlton (who is a natural pessimist), then he doesn't realize that Carlton wants to be able to think positively. He wants to be able to look at someone he may or may not have feelings for and be sure that they stand a chance in hell of not ending in some sort of traumatic explosion.

"You really think everything ends like that?"

"You ever see anything else?" Shawn asks critically, and Carlton remembers that Shawn's smile is his mask. His bright attitude must be, too, hiding something darker, more unpleasant than what he wants people to see.

"You and Guster." Somehow, it's the only example he can think of. Everywhere he looks, there are broken families, frayed relationships, strained smiles and everyone keeps pretending the world isn't a miserable place to be. The only ones he thought maybe saw something else without faking were Shawn and Gus.

Shawn's grin doesn't reach his eyes. "Yeah," he says in a voice that sounds ominously like a _not yet_ or a _just wait_. He looks away from Carlton, like he can't handle the lie he's telling himself. And Carlton can't help but notice how tired he looks.

The feeling – and a whole host of others he really doesn't feel like thinking about right now – is mutual. It's been a long day. For both of them, he supposes, though he shouldn't really reward Shawn for following him. He looks towards the hallway leading towards his bedroom, surprised by how quickly Shawn notices when, really, he shouldn't be by now. "Thinking about counting velociraptors?"

Carlton, reluctantly, turns to stare at him. Shawn shrugs. "Sheep were always too boring for me. Besides, all they ever did was stand around a chew grass. Once you get to like fifteen velociraptors, they start getting antsy. It ends up being a lot more fun. Trust me, Lassie." Carlton gives him a look, and Shawn laughs, smiling brightly. Carlton has a feeling that it's a real smile.

They're still standing too close, and Carlton's too aware of the fact that he wants to make sure Shawn gets some sleep as much as he wants to get some of his own. "To answer your earlier question, yes. I think I'm going to bed."

Shawn's smile falters just the slightest bit and damn him. Carlton sighs, takes a step away, starts to ask, "You want to...?" He trails off into mumbles because this is ridiculous.

Shawn blinks owlishly at him. "You want to have a sleepover?"

"Call it that again, Spencer, and you'll be on the other side of that door so fast your head will spin."

Shawn takes a moment to consider, peeks at him closely as if Carlton's trying to be mean and he can see that if he narrows his eyes enough. Carlton feels heat in his cheeks at the close examination, but Shawn finally smiles. Almost timidly. "I'd like to stay?"

\-----

Carlton rolls over onto his back in his sleep and bolts up at the pain, biting down any groans before he can voice them. Shawn's in the living room, crashed on the couch. Carlton had wanted to offer him a place in his bed – it was big enough and infinitely more comfortable than the couch – but the words had refused to be voiced. And Shawn had, for once, not read his mind or whatever he did to guess what he wanted on his own.

He flips back over onto his front, closes his eyes, and hears something coming from the living room. Shawn. Shawn talking.

The idea of Shawn talking in his sleep isn't without merit – Carlton would be honestly surprised if his mouth ever stopped running in spite of recent evidence to the contrary. He pulls himself out of bed, curious and unable to resist something to tease Shawn about later. No matter how easily he can see it being turned around on him. _You were watching me sleep?_

_You stalked me the entire day._

_Not when you were asleep!_ And so on. The fact he's smiling at the imagined conversation is nothing but annoying. He slowly creeps down the hallway as silently as he can manage. As he gets closer, he can hear Shawn's voice in quiet spurts. "Just go?" Because silence is a void Shawn doesn't like and is willing to fill it even when he's by himself. Carlton pauses, pressed against the wall, ridiculous except that he wants to listen to what a still-sleepy Shawn is talking about.

"Yeah," he says quietly, and Carlton hears the hum of something and realizes that Shawn's talking on his phone. "Yeah, I know." His voice is tired, like he's been having this conversation for far too long. "Gus. If I could use Jedi mind tricks, I wouldn't be on the couch."

Carlton has a very quick debate with himself that is quickly won by the part of him that loves getting the upper hand on Shawn. "Or you could just ask." He walks down the rest of the hallway so Shawn can see him in all of his sleep-disheveled glory. Shawn doesn't look like he's slept at all, his borrowed blanket wrapped around his shoulders and his hair still somehow as perfect as it was when Carlton left him in here hours ago. "Or is that too easy, Spencer?"

After a long moment, Shawn says, "Hey, buddy, I'm gonna have to call you back." He hangs up before Guster can protest. He leans back on Carlton's couch, licks his lips and considers. Slowly, he pushes himself up and walks towards Carlton, quiet and still looking thoughtful.

Carlton puts a hand on his chest when he gets too close, keeping him pushed back. "Ask." He doesn't know why he wants to hear Shawn ask for it as much as he does. Maybe it's a control thing – he wants to have something Shawn wants enough to cut the bullshit and ask for it.

Shawn must be more exhausted than he's letting on. His eyes flick around Carlton's face for a brief moment before he finally asks, "Can I sleep with you?"

Carlton nods and tilts his head to the side, indicating that Shawn should follow him.

\-----

Contrary to his expectations, Shawn doesn't try anything. He stays on the side of the bed he started on, his hands and feet kept politely to himself. He's even relatively quiet, occasionally mumbling or giggling but mostly just breathing deeply. He sleeps a lot less fitfully than Carlton had expected.

It's the first time that he realizes he's started having expectations for how Shawn will act.

Shawn leaves quickly after he wakes up, but not before he presses a surprise kiss to Carlton's lips. And asks if he can come back tonight, promising to bring take out when he does.

Carlton ends up having to cancel, a tricky case requiring that he work late for the first time since his back injuries. Shawn shows up at the station anyway, Guster in tow, with enough food to feed all three of them plus O'Hara. It's a welcome break, and Carlton finds himself smiling even though Shawn has that look in his eyes that says he has a hunch that's going to get him in trouble.

\-----

"Are we dating?" Shawn wonders aloud the fourth time he sleeps in Carlton's bed sometime around three in the morning.

"Shut up." Carlton mumbles, turning his head away from Shawn.

"We are, aren't we?" Shawn accuses, sounding like Carlton's been keeping a secret from him. His fingers twitch, touching Carlton's bare side. He's been getting closer as he gets more comfortable, and Carlton finds the small touches almost pleasant.

Carlton groans, "Yes, fine. Can I go back to sleep?"

Shawn laughs instead. Loudly. "I have a boyfriend!" And Carlton wonders if he smothers Shawn with a pillow just a little if it would be held against him.

\-----

They don't get touchy, and Carlton wonders if he's done something wrong. From the moment he considered that he might have an actual relationship with Shawn, he thought it would probably be one of the more intimate ones he'd been in. Shawn had never been shy about touching him, and he's been looking more and more like he's desperate to.

But after that late-night conversation, Shawn seems content. Save for the occasional brush in bed and stolen kisses here and there, he doesn't really get affectionate. Carlton tries to think if he might have done something to throw him off, but Shawn smiles widely at him, eyes alight with joy, and Carlton feels his fears ease just a little more.

Everything changes the next time Carlton visits the hospital. They remove the last of his stitches and announce that he should be done healing in the next day or two. But unless he puts extreme stress on them, they shouldn't break open again.

He can go back to operating at full capacity.

He never exactly tells Shawn that, but Shawn shows up for what's starting to become a semi-nightly pleading to sleep in Carlton's bed. Carlton isn't sure why – for all the talk of dating, they don't do much except watch _Cops_ reruns, sometimes eat dinner together, and sleep in the same bed.

Carlton remembers dating being somewhat different than that.

But Shawn shows up – sometimes with takeout in tow – and then asks so nicely if he can stay. However, the moment Carlton opens the door, he sees Shawn's grin, and it could light up the room. Shawn kisses him before he can ask what he's so damn happy about.

Carlton wants to ask how Shawn knows. He hasn't told anyone except Karen, and there's no way Shawn heard from her. Still, Shawn's taken the kid gloves off. Carlton's dimly aware of the wall being just a few inches from his back and Shawn's hands holding onto him, keeping him carefully still.

"What's the occasion?" Carlton finally asks.

He'll think about it later. Will realize that this is the first time he's seen Shawn since the month anniversary of the Harrell incident. He'll be laying awake, Shawn on the bed beside him, listening to Shawn's occasional unhappy mumble. He'll wonder if Shawn was thinking about it, was remembering watching him, and it'll ensure that he doesn't fall asleep.

He'll get up and relocate to the living room to deal with his latest bout of insomnia, and in less than 20 minutes, Shawn will follow, collapse on the couch with his head pillowed on Carlton's thigh. "Couldn't sleep," he'll mumble, eyes turned towards the flicker of the TV screen before he finally falls back asleep, Carlton's fingers running gently through his hair.

For now, though, Carlton remains oblivious, conscious only of Shawn's hands in his and the lips moving against his. "Shawn," he reminds gently.

"I wanna kiss you." Shawn pouts, "S'that okay?"

"I guess," Carlton sighs, smiling when Shawn makes a slightly offended noise.

They end up on the couch, and this time neither of them push themselves away. They kiss, nip, lick at lips, necks, and jaws for ages, just feeling each other and feeling close. Shawn's stomach rumbles, and Carlton's agrees with a loud bubbling gurgle. "Should eat." He expects some sort of protest at not taking it further, but Shawn only nods, staring up at him with a blissed-out grin.

"Should," Shawn agrees. They reluctantly pull apart. But after that, there's a shift. They start touching, innocent intimacies that make Carlton feel like a teenager again. It even makes him feel like he's in a real relationship.

\-----

The next time there's a chase, he doesn't hesitate. Even knowing that what he's doing could end badly, he can't stop the training and the years of reinforcement and orders pounding through his head, beating with the rapid thundering of his heart. His feet pound along the pavement and he shifts between passersby – he's focused and ready and there's nothing standing in his way.

He catches up, his breaths coming hard, but he doesn't even notice. He fastens the cuffs, recites the Miranda Rights and by the time his head clears of the rush, he realizes that O'Hara is standing at the nearby entrance of the alleyway, watching him with a mix of happiness and pride. He can't help his smile as he leads the perp towards the Crown Vic.

It's good to be back.

\-----

He steels himself for the inevitable. He could lie, he supposes. Say that he doesn't want it, convince Shawn that his sex drive's abandoned him. But that feels like running, like giving in, and Carlton didn't hide away when the whip made the scars on his back. He refuses to hide from the memory.

Still. Weeks later, when they're in the bed they share on a semi-nightly basis, Carlton's hands freeze on the bottom of his shirt. His heart picks up its pace in his chest, and he finds himself wishing Shawn would stop looking at him like he knows. He closes his eyes and tries to force himself past it but he can't.

Can only imagine Shawn seeing them. Tangible evidence of his failings and deciding that they're too much. Leaving him with a look of disgust or, worse, laughing at them. Pretending that they're a joke when, somehow, those stripes feel like Carlton's entire being exposed in raised, pale lines on his back.

His eyes are closed, his hands subtly shaking, and he feels worse at that moment than he has since Harrell gagged Shawn.

There are words, somewhere, in his vocabulary. To tell Shawn what he needs, to tell Shawn to get out and leave him be, to break down the sudden overload of emotions that are flooding him when all he'd wanted to do a few minutes ago was have sex with Shawn. The words are there. Somewhere. Lost, dying in his throat.

A warm embrace slides around his waist, and Carlton is helpless to stop himself from gripping back tightly, burying his head against Shawn's neck. He feels so weak, so damn helpless and he's been through so much worse, why is it _this_ that's finally threatening to break him apart? He doesn't. He holds it together, a very thin wire trembling with tension as he all but clings to Shawn. Because, for some bizarre reason, it doesn't bother him that Shawn's seeing this, and Shawn isn't talking, isn't saying anything, is just holding him. Half-dressed himself and his hand curves up Carlton's back, runs soothingly through his hair.

Carlton finally feels it all rush out of him, the tide going out as he pulls back to look at Shawn. "I'm sorry," he says quietly.

"Don't," Shawn shakes his head, his hands still resting comfortingly on him. "Just... please." Shawn's eyes plead for him, say what he needs in the same way his words can't. The same way Carlton's can't. "Trust me. And if you want me to stop, I will."

Carlton's throat feels too tight to answer, but he kisses Shawn and hopes it says everything he can't. Shawn smiles at him.

They move slow, kissing for ages until Carlton's all but forgotten what he was afraid of. Shawn works Carlton's shirt off and eventually asks, "Can I?"

"Yeah," Carlton agrees finally. "Yeah, just..."

"I know," Shawn says gently. He arranges Carlton on his hands and knees then settles back. Carlton shudders, practically feeling Shawn's eyes lingering on the scars. Light fingers trace one, gentle, fearful, Carlton thinks. But then he feels the warm tickle of Shawn's lips tracing another, fluttering after a small kiss while he murmurs, his voice full of absolute reverence, "You're beautiful. You know that?"

And, like that, Carlton's anxiety slips away. "If you say so."

"I did. And I meant it, too," Shawn says, smiling against his skin. Shawn takes his time, familiarizes himself with each one, murmuring endearments as his lips trace and kiss them, delicate as if Carlton might fall apart if he's not. His hands wander down Carlton's sides, reaching around his front to work open the fly of Carlton's slacks. He presses his hips forward, and Carlton feels the hardness in Shawn's jeans. That's because of him. Scars and all. And knowing that chases the shadows away, leaves Carlton hard and wanting without any other thoughts clouding his head.

They pull off the rest of their clothes, and Shawn slips slick fingers inside of him, all the while telling him how wonderful he is, how beautiful, how brave. Carlton doubts so much, knows better than to believe the honey-sweet words that fall out of that lying mouth. But Shawn presses himself in, and with every inch, Carlton finds himself willing to believe him. If only until they're done.

They lay afterward entwined, sticky and sated, and Carlton finds himself asking, "You don't mind them?" Shawn blinks at him sleepily, confused. "The scars," he clarifies, his chest tight.

"Why would I?" Shawn sighs softly, his hand curving around Carlton's side and finding the nearest one with surprising accuracy. His touch brings that word to mind again – reverent – and Shawn's expression is nothing short of adoration. "They're part of you."

"Yes, but-"

Shawn kisses him firmly, shuts him up nicely before Carlton can explain that no one wants him, scars or not. "No buts." He nestles close, and before Carlton can protest, Shawn's drifted off, his breathing deep and even.

So, he supposes, that's that. He begins to fall asleep himself, still overly conscious of the marks on his back like he can feel each individual one standing starkly against his skin. They'll never fade completely, and maybe they'll be the last thing he thinks of before he falls asleep for the rest of his life.

Or maybe it'll be Shawn like he is now, still, silent, sleeping in Carlton's arms.

He doesn't dwell on it as he pulls Shawn close before succumbing to sleep himself. And he thinks maybe that's what healing feels like.


End file.
